The Witching Hour
by Ritequette
Summary: Malcolm C. Leverrier is murdered. Allen Walker is a suspect. And Howard Link is very concerned about this predicament.
**Chapter 1: A Nightmare of a Morning**

A nightmare of a morning can start like any other.

Link wakes on his too-thin mattress on Allen Walker's bedroom floor, groggy from a late night spent catching on up paperwork. He's never complained about paperwork before, not once in his life—in fact, when he'd moved from his Crow position to Leverrier's right hand, he'd been delighted at the prospect of pen and paper in place of knives and paper tags. At least on a regular basis. (He doesn't mind the _occasional_ fight.)

But the massive mountain of paperwork he'd returned to the other day had tested even his limits, to say nothing of Walker's moaning. And it was all because of that mission to London…

An easy recovery mission had turned into a grand ordeal, when a pickpocket snatched the Innocence shard right out of the Finder's bag. He and Walker had spent a long night hunting that pickpocket down, using Walker's highly suspect knowledge of less than savory establishments. When they'd finally caught up to the man, dawn was already breaking. As was that man's leg, after he foolishly jumped from a three-story window in a failed attempt to escape them.

But, ah, at least they'd recovered the Innocence and returned to the Order unharmed. Exhausted, sure, but they'd returned in _much_ worse shape before.

If only it wasn't for the paperwork that had piled up in their absence, Link might have called that mission a true success.

Alas…

He rubs his bleary eyes and glances at the desk on the far side of the room, the stacks of heavy paper taunting him in the glow of early morning light. The finished stack is, sadly, smaller than the unfinished one, and he'll probably have to take his work to breakfast with him in order to get it all done by the evening deadline. Sitting up, back still sore from his endless miles of running through the London streets, he laments the fact that he actually commiserates with Walker for once. _Damn the paperwork. Damn it all._

He peels the covers off his body and turns his gaze the other direction. Walker, as expected, is still buried in his sheets, nothing but a few locks of pale hair visible through a gap. Link considers whether he should attempt to wake Walker now and risk getting hit by a flailing Innocence arm, or whether he should complete his morning routine and attempt the wakeup drill after he himself is more awake.

(Dull reflexes can lead to unfortunate bruises, he's learned, when in the presence of a groggy Allen Walker.)

Pushing himself to his feet, Link stretches, eyes still on Walker's form as he heads to his bags tucked into the corner. He digs out a clean uniform and his toiletries, then crosses toward the door, grabbing his boots from the spot near the desk where he usually leaves them. Walker doesn't stir the entire time, and if he wasn't clearly breathing under his comforter, Link would almost be worried that the boy had snuck a dummy in his place and finally escaped Link's careful watch.

But no, Allen Walker might be a card sharp, might have a wicked streak in his blood somewhere, but he's not _that_ conniving. Not that Link has seen—and Link is certain he's seen pretty much everything since he was assigned to follow Walker around.

Walker could be a _very_ open book, especially when you knew where to look and when to look there. (Link would admit that he'd been concerned when he realized most of Walker's friends knew _neither_.)

Link lingers in front of the door for a moment longer, gaze stuck to those snow white locks peeking out of Walker's latest fortress, then shakes a few loose strands of his own hair out of his face. He tucks his boots under his arm and opens the door with his free hand, slips through then shuts it softly again behind him. He can usually complete his morning routine in fifteen minutes or so.

Walker will still be asleep when he gets back. He's sure of it. In fact, Walker would sleep like a log until noon if Link let him…but Link wouldn't let him, because then Walker would combine breakfast and lunch into a meal so gargantuan it would clean the kitchen out entirely. And if that hadn't been a complete disaster the last time it happened…

Well, Link would be back in fifteen minutes. And then he'd wake up Walker.

* * *

Twelve minutes later, Link emerges from the communal washroom refreshed and finally ready to face the paperback waiting on his desk. As he turns out of the doorway, adjusting the tie for his braid, he catches sight of two armed Central guards loitering at the nearest hallway intersection. He doesn't recall their names—they're from the group that was newly rotated in last week—but the pair of them are talking animatedly enough, frowns on their faces, that Link feels compelled to head their way. Just out of curiosity.

(Their business could concern him, after all. He's _not_ nosy. He isn't.)

Plus, he still has three minutes to get back to Walker's room.

He changes direction and marches over to the quietly arguing guards, catching bits and pieces of their hushed conversation. They appear to be talking about Central business, something regarding Inspector Leverrier and an important morning meeting? As he nears them, he coughs to get their attention, and when they recognize him, they both salute.

"Sir," says the taller of the two men. "We were, ah…" He glances toward the other man.

His partner looks contemplative for a moment, then picks up the conversation. "Well, I suppose if there's someone to ask for help, it's you, Inspector Link."

Link tucks his toiletries bag under his arm and frowns. "Help? With what?"

The taller man fidgets in place, clearly nervous. They're both nervous. But Link can't discern whether their anxiety comes from something insignificant or vitally important. They're not giving off enough signals.

"Look," Link says, "just give me the basic details, please. What is the problem?"

The shorter man takes a deep breath and replies, "It's just, sir, that we're having a slight issue with Inspector Leverrier." His voice quiets when a trio of Science Division members amble by on their way to the washroom. "We've knocked on his door three times this morning, and he hasn't responded. His door is locked, you see, so we can't just go in. And we wouldn't anyway, of course, because it's Inspector Leverrier. But…"

His taller partner finishes, "He's got a meeting with Supervisor Lee and several other officials in twenty minutes, and we're afraid he's going to be late. We think he might be sleeping off a little excess…well, there was a dinner last night with the visiting staff from the Vatican, and there was quite a bit of wine thrown around, and then the Inspector had a private meeting after with two Cardinals, and…"

Link's shoulders tighten with every word, but he doesn't reprimand these men. Inspector Leverrier is not known for drinking to excess, but like any man, he can find himself affected in the morning after a tad too much wine the night before. Link himself rarely drinks, almost never really, but there were a few times a few years back, before Leverrier, where he'd let Tevak and Tokusa talk him into…

Anyway, Inspector Leverrier is a smart and powerful man, but he is as vulnerable as the rest of them. He's been sick before. He's been injured before. And yes, he has been mildly intoxicated before and suffered a headache the following morning.

Link stares down the two guards for a silent minute, then sighs inwardly. He straightens his posture, tucks his hands behind his back, and says, "Very well, then. I'll wake the Inspector myself and make sure he attends his meeting on time. Thank you for alerting me to the issue. Next time, however, don't hesitate to come to me if there's a problem of any kind regarding Central functions here at the Order. _Especially_ if it's a time-sensitive issue. We don't want to risk one of our staff looking unprofessional in the eyes of the Order, you know."

The guards swallow and nod far too many times.

"Of course," says the taller one. "I apologize, Inspector Link."

His partner awkwardly elbows him, and then they're off down the hall in a nervous shuffle.

As soon as they turn a corner, Link sighs _outwardly_. He has less than a minute left to get back to Walker's room at his self-promised time, but…Walker can wait, he supposes. It's more important that Inspector Leverrier meets his obligations accordingly—so Link will grant Walker a slightly longer reprieve.

A brisk walk later, and Link finds himself at the Inspector's locked door. He tests the knob, just to be sure, just to check the guards didn't lie to him, but it doesn't budge. He's not surprised. His boss is not the kind of man to leave himself _that_ open. He's suspicious by design, by his history—the very nature of his work as an Inspector makes him both a target of retaliation and skeptical of _everything_ in practice. His job _is_ to launch inquiries into suspected crimes against the Church, after all.

However, despite the Inspector's desire (and perhaps need) for the occasional locked door, Link finds himself unable to honor that wish at this time. He knocks twice and receives no answer. And the clock is ticking down the appointed meeting time.

Link checks the surrounding hallway for any prying eyes. But this particular section of the Order's housing is largely unused—this is a new building, and they don't quite have enough staff to fill all the rooms—so there are few passersby. Certain that no one will catch his next move, Link slips a few lock picking tools from a hidden pocket in his coat and takes a crack at the keyhole in the door.

(Tevak had criticized him once, for his mysterious, "nefarious" lock picking skills. He hadn't had the heart to tell her Madarao taught him.)

After a few minutes of fumbling about, he manages to trip the lock, and he turns the doorknob, slowing, quietly opening the door. He doesn't want to startle the Inspector. Or embarrass him if he's in any sort of state of disarray. He simply wants to wake the man and ensure he's prepared to head to the meeting on time. Then he'll leave and pretend he never saw anything or said anything or knows anything about Inspector Leverrier being in any sort of disheveled…

It's the smell that hits him first. It stains the cool air that flutters through the gap in the door. A smell Link has gotten far too well acquainted with in recent weeks. A smell that clings to Allen Walker every time he steps out on a mission. A smell that clings to Link after every half-failed battle. A smell that clings to the Order as a whole, dried into its history from the start.

Blood.

Link drops his lock picks and kicks the door open.

Inspector Leverrier is in plain sight. He's sprawled out on the carpet next to the bed. Still dressed in his clothing from the night before. He never even made it to bed. He…

The pool of blood beneath the Inspector is so wide, so thick that Link can hardly tell what color the carpet used to be.

Link stands in the doorway for what could a minute. Or an hour. Or a week. Time becomes irrelevant in this moment. As Link slowly, painfully, fearfully processes the scene before him. A scene that looks ever so much like the scene of Cross Marian's presumed murder weeks ago. With one, obvious difference.

Cross Marian's body was never found.

But Malcolm Leverrier's is undeniable _there_.

And he is undeniably dead.


End file.
